


Matters of Consequence

by alltoseek



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: “Draw me a sheep!” the young man insisted.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hedda62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/gifts).



I loved how magical the world seemed when I was a child. Imagination was limitless; my friends and I moved freely between the worlds of the possible and the impossible. No barriers could hold us back.

Now, you understand, I was born during the Depression; I grew up during war. And even while we were fighting enemies overseas, our life at home was torn apart by racism. No adult thought there was anything magical about this time.

But I was just a child. Magic was everywhere. I hung onto it tight, for survival. I didn't want the bleak, starved, war-torn and hate-filled world of the adults. I wanted the magic of endless impossibilities, and joy, and laughter. I held tight to it for all I was worth, and I still do.

~o~o~o~

 

“Will you draw me a sheep, Agent Burke?” asked Caffrey.

Peter couldn't draw so much as a stick figure, but he took out his pen and notepad.

Caffrey criticized his first effort, then his second – of course he did, who was the expert artist here? – until finally Peter drew a box, with air holes.

“Peter, you're a genius!” cried Caffrey, looking at him with shining eyes.

“Yes, I am.” Peter grinned smugly. The diversion had worked: Jones snapped the cuffs on Caffrey's wrists. “And you're under arrest.”

 

~o~o~o~

 

It's been six years since I made the acquaintance of my charming young friend. I never thought to write down any of my story, to make a memoir, but my friend was so remarkable, so amazing – the world should never forget him.

 

~o~

“Draw me a sheep!” the young man insisted.

“My dear boy, now why on earth should I do that?” I asked, puzzled.

The beautiful child flashed me a brilliant grin.

~o~

 

The world was a stark, barren place for me that day. I had buried my husband some time ago, and then I found that saying goodbye to all his things was much harder than it should have been. My Byron was so much more than a helpmeet: he was my best friend, my partner in every way. You see, he held as tight to the magic in the world as I did. Together, we made it through every hard time, holding that magic in our hearts, in our lives, in our love.

I'd almost forgotten how to hold onto it alone, and I felt it slipping away. What's worse, I wasn't sure I cared.

 

~o~

 

“Hats are amazingly useful,” confided the young man. “They can keep the rain off your head and the sun out of your eyes. You can even pull a rabbit out of one.” He waved his open palm over the turned-up hat, and a small stuffed bunny appeared in his hand.

“Or,” I said slyly, “the hat could turn out to be a snake eating an elephant.”

The young man gasped. “Oh, I hope not!” He held the hat upright, away from his body, gingerly grasping the edges of the brim. “A snake that powerful would be an exceedingly dangerous animal.” The hat grew heavy in his hands, and his face drew grim.

A quick wink and with a twirl the hat was on his head and his smile as brilliant as the sun.

 

~o~o~o~

 

“Why do you ask everyone to draw you a sheep?” asked Peter.

“Have you ever met anyone who could draw a sheep?” Neal asked in turn.

“Uhhh... no?”

“There you are,” said Neal, with a wide grin.

 

~o~o~o~

 

“You and Kate look very good together, Nick, well done,” said Adler.

“Thank you, sir,” said Neal, blushing slightly.

Adler looked sharply at him. “Girls are lovely, Nick, but don't let them distract you from matters of consequence.”

 

~o~o~o~

 

“Peter,” said Neal, patiently, “Do you know why the bottle was so important?”

“It was, uh, very expensive wine that you were saving to drink together?” guessed the agent.

“No. No, I got the bottle empty. It was only ever filled with water. You see, I used it as a vase. Kate loved flowers, but flowers are ephemeral. They keep dying, fading. So every day I bought a new rosebud, identical each time, and replaced the previous one in the bottle. Exactly so. It was as if the bud never died, never changed. I made the ephemeral permanent.”

“You mean you created an illusion of permanence where there was none,” said Peter, ever the cynical agent.

Neal dropped his chin, looked straight at him. “The flowers were real, Peter. As is my love for Kate. The most important things are permanent, yet unseen by the eye. They're invisible, but more real than any tangible thing. What do you think is most important to Elizabeth? Oleander candles, old jazz records?”

 

~o~o~o~

 

“I don't want a music box, Neal,” said Kate. “I don't need gold and jewelry and all these... these  _ things _ . You might as well give me a star from the heavens.”

“Then I will!” Neal promised. “I'll get you whichever star you want! Which one would you like? I'll give you all of them,” he smiled wide, arms thrown open.

Kate looked at him sadly. “Neal. All of us already have all the stars.”

 

~o~o~o~

 

Peter led El into the room, stumbling, giggling. “Peter! What are we doing?”

“What can you smell?” asked Peter.

Elizabeth inhaled slowly. “Mmm – flowers, scented candles... Oh, they're lovely!”

“Mm-hmm,” agreed Peter. “Now, do you hear this?” Lightly he set the needle to the track.

“Oooh, Ambassador Satch!” El shivered with delight. “One of my favorites.”

“And now, do you feel this?” Peter took her in his arms, swaying them gently through a slow dance.

“Ah-ha-ha, Peter!” exclaimed El, laughing. “This feels wonderful. Do I get to take my blindfold off now?”

“Mmm, in a minute,” said Peter, laying his cheek against the top of her head. “A wise man told me, the best things are invisible. The scent in the air, the sound of the music, the movement of the dance... and, El, my love for you. You can't see it, but it's the most real thing I have. It's the best I can offer. I love you.”

 

~o~o~o~

 

It wasn't that the cheap wine loosened Neal's tongue. More like, it was easier to keep talking than to drink that wretched ferment. 

“When I first came to the City, I didn't know anyone. It was like being in a desert – people as numerous as grains of sand, everywhere and indistinguishable. Except some, I knew, were wild animals – dangerous ones.”

~o~

A voice: “Hey, kid.”

Neal turned, and turned again, searching. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The man slipped past quickly, a swift strike, a flash of gold, then slunk away into the crowd. Nothing left but a low chuckle: “Name's Keller. Be seein' ya, Caffrey.”

 

~o~

“Moz was another of the wild animals. He had a... a reputation. He could be very dangerous, but only when roused to extreme anger, which was rare. He's more of a 'live and let live' philosopher. And he was good. Very good. He knew everyone, and they all knew him. By repute, mostly – few knew him well. He appreciated the finer things, but he didn't let them tie him down – he didn't bother with a fancy house, or a fancy car, or wearing fancy clothes. No one could track him down. I knew he was the partner I needed.”

“Yeah?” asked Peter. “Why was that? You seemed to be doing all right on your own.”

“Maybe, but I was tired of being alone. I could put up a good front, but I needed someone to back me up,” answered Neal. He took a drink, then grimaced, remembering why his glass was still mostly full.

Neal went on: “It took a long time to make Moz's acquaintance. Even longer to become friends. He's a sly old fox, you know. He didn't like routines --”

“Still doesn't,” interjected Peter.

“No, unless you count evenings spent sitting in my apartment, drinking my wine. The good stuff.” They both chuckled.

“Moz was impossible to track down – you never knew where he might be and when. So instead, I made myself easy to find. I stuck to a routine – I'd always be at the park at, say, four o'clock. I'd set up my easel, draw and paint for the tourists. Then I'd wait until I saw Moz out of the corner of my eye – noticing me. Not coming near, and he'd be there just for a moment. The next day, he'd be doing something else – instead of feeding the birds from one bench, he'd be reading a paper at another. A little closer this time. Until he'd walk past my easel, not looking, not stopping. I paid no attention. The next time he might pause, make a comment --”

“More like a criticism,” said Peter, snorting into his beer.

Neal smiled. “Yeah. But eventually – eventually he would hang out nearby, while I was drawing and painting, and we'd chat, about all sorts of things. Books we'd read, art we'd seen; philosophy, politics...”

“Conspiracy theories,” said Peter.

“Those too.” Neal nodded. “They make for good ice-breakers. We'd toss quotes at each other.”

“And that's how you caught Mozzie.”

“And that's how I made a friend,” said Neal.

 

~o~o~o~

  
  


_ In Paris, Peter made the regular tourist rounds. Every morning saw him at the same café, nibbling a croissant and sipping coffee while reading the international edition of The New York Times. _

  
  


~o~o~o~

 

Some thought the best part about the skylights in Neal's loft was the light they provided for his art; the soft gentle glow for everyday use, instead of harsh electric bulbs.

Neal could tell you it was the stars he could see through them, the few stars not washed out by the city's eternal glare. The stars he shared with

 

~o~o~o~

 

“I have my wits, Neal,” Kate had said. “They're pretty sharp. They'll keep me safe.”

 

~o~o~o~

  
  


_ After breakfast, Peter would stroll the length of the Champs-Élysées. _

  
  


~o~o~o~

 

“You have a life here and now, Neal. Friends, responsibilities...” entreated Peter. “You gotta learn to let her go.”

“Once you make a friend, you have a responsibility to them, I know,” pleaded Neal, anguished. “I brought Kate into the life – I'm responsible for her.”

 

~o~o~o~

  
  


_ Every day Peter visited the Louvre, browsing the many galleries of European paintings and sculpture. _

  
  


~o~o~o~

 

_ "Dammit, where'd he run off to now!?” _ thought Peter, rushing around the corner. There, ahead, he could see Neal, talking to – someone, he couldn't tell, the man was hidden in the shadows. Snatches of the conversation came to him as Peter hurried down the street.

“I can help you get back to Kate. I can send you to join her,” said the other man.

“The plan will work? It'll be quick?” asked Neal.

Peter could see the other man now.

“I swear to you, Neal,” said Keller. “It'll be a quick and painless shot straight to her.”

 

~o~o~o~

  
  


_ Lunch in Paris Peter spent at the Place de la Madeleine, savoring one of the fine options available.  _

  
  


~o~o~o~

 

When Peter went back to the morgue the next day, Neal's body was gone.

My heart was sick, for myself, for him. Dark shadows hung under red-rimmed eyes, sorrow deepened grooves around his mouth. “I've already made the arrangements, Peter, I hope you don't mind,” I told him. “Neal had left very specific instructions.”

Peter looked sharply at me. “He thought he was going to die?”

I raised an eyebrow. “He was aware of the risks he ran,” I said gently. “He talked to me about it a long time ago. As I talked to him. When you get to my age, you can't ignore the inevitable anymore.”

Peter slumped. “I'm sorry, June. Please, go on.”

“Neal doesn't want a funeral,” I told him. “He wants... not a memorial service, either, not quite. More like a – a wake. As in the Irish tradition.”

Peter huffed. “A party. Neal's last wish is that we throw him a party. Figures.”

“For his friends,” I reminded him. “He wants – wanted – us to focus on the life that we have, our friends, our love. He's gone, and we can't bring him back, but we can enjoy our memories, and each other.”

“The invisible things,” Peter murmured.

I wasn't certain what I'd heard. “I'm sorry?”

“He told me once, the best things – the most important things – are things we can't see. Like love. Like – memories. We don't have Neal anymore. What we have left of him is invisible.”

 

~o~o~o~

  
  


_ Paris afternoons Peter lingered in the Jardin des Tuileries, admiring the various artists at work. _

  
  


~o~o~o~

 

One year after my beautiful friend died, it arrived: a small, brilliant-cut diamond, set in an intaglio of deepest indigo. Like a star. A single brilliant star shining from the velvet night.

 

~o~o~o~

  
  


_ In the Paris evenings Peter relaxed in his hotel's lounge, before enjoying dinner at a nearby restaurant. _

  
  


~o~

  
One morning found Peter at his usual café, when a figure in a suit and hat stopped near his table. “Is this seat taken?” 

Peter looked up, and smiled.


End file.
